Місіс Деллоуей

           “Ishallcomeback,”shesaid,lookingatheroldfriends,SallyandPeter,whowereshakinghands,andSally,rememberingthepastnodoubt,waslaughing.

           Buthervoicewaswrungofitsoldravishingrichness;hereyesnotaglowastheyusedtobe,whenshesmokedcigars,whensherandownthepassagetofetchherspongebag,withoutastitchofclothingonher,andEllenAtkinsasked,Whatifthegentlemenhadmether?Buteverybodyforgaveher.Shestoleachickenfromthelarderbecauseshewashungryinthenight;shesmokedcigarsinherbedroom;sheleftapricelessbookinthepunt.Buteverybodyadoredher(exceptperhapsPapa).Itwasherwarmth;hervitality—shewouldpaint,shewouldwrite.Oldwomeninthevillagenevertothisdayforgottoaskafter“yourfriendintheredcloakwhoseemedsobright.”SheaccusedHughWhitbread,ofallpeople(andtherehewas,heroldfriendHugh,talkingtothePortugueseAmbassador),ofkissingherinthesmoking-roomtopunishherforsayingthatwomenshouldhavevotes.Vulgarmendid,shesaid.AndClarissarememberedhavingtopersuadehernottodenouncehimatfamilyprayers—whichshewascapableofdoingwithherdaring,herrecklessness,hermelodramaticloveofbeingthecentreofeverythingandcreatingscenes,anditwasbound,Clarissausedtothink,toendinsomeawfultragedy;herdeath;hermartyrdom;insteadofwhichshehadmarried,quiteunexpectedly,abaldmanwithalargebuttonholewhoowned,itwassaid,cottonmillsatManchester.